


a kiss is not just a kiss

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Kissing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Roommates, Sleepy Kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 21:00:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6923182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like that, he reminds himself firmly. Clarke was exhausted. She's <i>been</i> exhausted for the last two weeks. She was groggy and half-dead on her feet — practically sleepwalking. She didn't know what she was doing, not really. </p><p>Even so, he can't stop thinking about how <i>right</i> her lips had felt pressed to his, intentional or not.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where sleepy Clarke accidentally kisses Bellamy and turns his whole world upside down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a kiss is not just a kiss

**Author's Note:**

> i thought of this during my sleepless night leading up to the s3 finale and of course i had to drop all my other WIPs IMMEDIATELY. 
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'Can't Get You Out of My Mind' by Aqualung)

 

 

 

 

“Bellamy?”

 

His neck swivels around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash.

 

Clarke emerges from the shadowed hallway, rubbing at her still-closed eyes.

 

“Oh, shit— sorry,” he half-whispers as he blindly knocks his freshly washed coffee cup against the hard metal of the tap with a loud clunk. “Fu _—sorry_. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

His roommate yawns as she pads into the open kitchen. “You didn’t. I just suddenly woke up.”

 

It’s early — too early. He’s not usually one for sleeping in, but walking about fully dressed still feels like a herculean effort when it’s not even light out yet. But he’s got a flight to New York to catch, and a seminar to attend for work. This basically means two and a half days of sitting motionless in barely cushioned chairs listening to a bunch of middle-aged police captains and department heads drone on and on for hours at a stretch, with nothing to look forward to save for a meagre selection of generic pastry offerings on blessedly frequent coffee breaks.

 

“Jesus, Clarke, it’s cold,” he chides, keeping his voice low as he strides toward her. He scoops up the sweatshirt he’d left draped over the back of a chair and wraps it around her bare shoulders. She tends to sleep in tank tops and camisoles, and while that’s fine and dandy when she’s tucked under her fluffy comforter, it does nothing to protect her skin from the chill in the kitchen. On the other hand, he’s already dressed to go, jacket on over his button down, with his tie neatly rolled up and tucked into a side pocket on his duffle bag.

 

A second yawn escapes her mouth, her head ducking down to stifle it as he guides her arms through the thick sleeves of his sweatshirt.

 

"S'okay," she mumbles, waiting patiently till he's zipped her up to slide her arms around his waist. "You're warm," she mutters into the front of his shirt, her nose buried in the soft cotton.

 

He laughs quietly, his arms going around her to draw her into him. “Okay, princess,” he says into her hair, allowing himself to nuzzle into the soft yellow strands for a few brief seconds. His arms tighten around her, and he thinks how much smaller she seems like this — him fully dressed for the day, her barefoot and engulfed in his hoodie, her hands lost in the too-long sleeves.

 

She sighs contentedly, turning to press the entire left side of her face against his chest. Tired Clarke is usually more tactile, but Exhausted Clarke is touchy in a different way — more intimate, not so offhand or casual. Tired Clarke will elbow him affectionately in the ribs, or lean her head on his shoulder like she would with Raven or Monty. Exhausted Clarke will clamber up onto the couch, burrow into his side and drift into slumber as she breathes gently into his neck, one hand lightly fisted into his T-shirt.

 

He lets a few more moments pass, suddenly far more reluctant to leave the apartment than he’d been before she’d staggered into the room. One of his hands comes up to cradle her head when he feels it sagging heavier against his front. “Go back to bed, princess,” he soothes, his lips brushing against her temple.

 

“’Kay,” she murmurs into his shirt before dissolving into another yawn. She lifts her head, blinking up at him with watery eyes. “Text when you land?”

 

“If you insist,” he says with a smile, his hand curling instinctively into her hair as it cups the hollow where the back of her head and neck meet. “Sleep, Clarke. You’re exhausted.”

 

She hums vaguely, both of her hands sliding from his waist to grasp at his open jacket. “Have a good flight,” she says drowsily, her voice still hoarse from sleep as she pushes up towards him and _kisses him square on the lips_.

 

He stands completely still, frozen in shock. His arms are numb as she slips out from between them and shuffles back into the dark hallway, yawning as she goes.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

**Why the fuck is JFK always so crowded?**

**Where the hell is everyone even GOING**

**to their boring work seminars**

**speaking of work, guess who got called in**

**Shit. Really?**

**maya needed to switch shifts**

**if it was anyone else, i would’ve**

**gone norman bates on their ass**

**Heeeeere’s Johnny!**

**….. that’S FROM THE SHINING**

**Had a feeling I was gonna mess that one up.**

**okay tbh i laughed**

**bc you’re more pathetic than me**

**so ty**

**Glad to be of service, princess.**

**You sure you’re okay to work?**

**yeah just still tired from last week**

**but what else is new ha**

**why?**

**Nothing.**

**Get some rest when you can.**

**Getting into a cab now.**

**okayyyy nerd**

**have fun playing cop with the big boys!**

 

* * *

Bellamy can’t quite remember what normal texting behaviour is supposed to look like.

 

He’s trying not weird Clarke out, but he genuinely can’t tell if he’s being overly affectionate or boomeranging into standoffish territory when he tries to exercise some restraint. He checks his phone every six seconds, reading her replies with greedy eyes and re-reading her previous texts when there’s no new messages. He’s just about exhausted with the effort of trying to glean substantial clues from every word she’s sent so far, all of which sound so deceptively _normal_.

 

He feels like a fucking _teenager_ , and it fucking sucks.

 

He’s also trying not to freak out over the fact that she hasn’t mentioned the— the _incident_. Earlier today. In the kitchen.

 

He refuses to think of the K-word. The one that rhymes with ‘miss' — as in, he really _miss_ es his roommate right now.

 

Fuck. It’s weird, though. They’ve never been away from each other for more than a day at a time before, not since they moved in together a year ago.

 

He glances at the clock, and his gut turns uncomfortably at the thought of the empty hotel room waiting for him at the end of the day. All he wants is to pack up his stuff, go home to his apartment and make dinner with Clarke, in the kitchen where she’d just ki—

 

Shit, _no_.

 

It’s not like that, he reminds himself firmly. Clarke was exhausted. She’s _been_ exhausted for the last two weeks. She was groggy and half-dead on her feet — practically _sleepwalking_. She didn’t know what she was doing, not really.

 

Even so, he can’t stop thinking about how _right_ her lips had felt pressed to his, intentional or not.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The next day, he forces himself not to text her first. Her regular Tuesday shift is sixteen hours and completely draining as it is, and she really doesn’t need to be disturbed.

 

He caves midway through a presentation on identifying murder weapons, discreetly snapping a photo of a blood-spattered axe on one of the slides and sending it to her with the caption _‘is this you?’_

 

She replies within a minute, a series of barely coherent messages that mostly comprise of _‘HAHA’_ and very generous use of caps lock.

 

His heart lifts, and then dips right back down under the weight of irrepressible guilt.

 

He doesn’t text her again for the rest of the day.

 

At night, he opens up a new email and spends two minutes typing out an update on the seminar for his boss, and another sixteen minutes staring blankly at his pitifully skimpy report. He’d thought that not _talking_ to Clarke would help him focus a little more on the presentations and talks. As it turns out, just _thinking_ about her is a lot more unhelpful.

 

He sighs, and gets out of bed to retrieve the unnecessarily thick seminar notes he’d received upon arrival. Probably best if he at least _sounds_ like he’s good at his job.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**I’M AWAKE BEFORE NOON ON MY**

**DAY OFF is this really happening**

**your flight gets in at 1, right? pick you up?**

**There can be miracles.**

**Flight’s been delayed. 2 hours**

**fuck. seriously?**

**Still waiting on announcements.**

**lmk when they get**

**their shit together**

**Go rest. I’ll catch a cab**

**PICK YOU UP AT 3**

**I don’t even know for sure**

**if it’s gonna be 2 hours**

**It’s fine, princess. Really.**

**… okay**

**but lmk anyway**

 

* * *

It’s well past midnight when Clarke hears it — heavy footfalls in a familiar rhythm, a muffled cough. She jumps up from the couch and hurries to the door, her lips already curving upward before she even yanks it open.

 

“Wow,” she says with a grin. “You look terrible.”

 

Bellamy’s standing on the other side, blinking sleepily at her through mussed black curls with his key in his outstretched hand.

 

“You look comfortable,” he mumbles, his voice raspy with fatigue as he plods into the apartment, letting his bag drop to the floor of the hallway.

 

She snorts, latching the door and turning to watch him tug his shoes off, with much less finesse than normal. “It’s nearly two A.M., Bellamy. What else would I be wearing?”

 

He kicks off the other shoe and turns to her, wrapping both arms around her waist. She blinks in surprise at the firm, unhesitating way he pulls her to him, but slides her own arms around his shoulders nonetheless.

 

“I like this,” he mutters, his fingers closing over the heavy material of his sweatshirt, the garment hanging loosely off her shoulders.

 

She laughs breathlessly against his shoulder, her arms tightening helplessly around his neck. He smells like hand sanitiser and coffee, but she buries her nose into his shoulder anyway. “I figured that’s part of why you bought it.”

 

“No,” he says, a drowsy slur dragging his syllables out. “I mean— I like it like _this_. Like you.”

 

“Okay,” she says, more amused by his tiredness than confused by his words. “Sure, Bellamy.”

 

She lets him hold her for a few more moments, his face disappearing into the crook of her neck and drawing deep, steady breaths against her. She braces her feet when she feels him start to lean into her a lot more heavily, one of her hands curling into his hair to scratch lightly at the back of his scalp.

 

“Hey,” she says, keeping her voice as low as she can manage, “hey, let’s get you to bed, yeah?”

 

He hums into her neck, his arms squeezing reflexively around her middle.

 

“Bed.” He nods against her shoulder, yawning into her sweatshirt — _his_ sweatshirt — before lifting his head, eyelids heavy with tiredness. “Good idea.”

 

“Great idea,” she agrees, smiling at his glassy eyes, the telltale slack in his jaw — so unlike him, usually all focused and intense. “Get some sleep, Bellamy.”

 

He nods again, smiling drowsily at her as his hand comes up to curl loosely into her hair, his head tilting towards her. “Missed you,” he half-whispers, before leaning in to press his lips against hers.

 

She’s completely still as he pulls away, mumbling a soft _‘night, princess’_ as he slowly picks up his bag and shuffles into his room, yawning into his elbow.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s nearly noon by the time Bellamy wakes up. His stomach is already much more awake than him, and evidently very upset at having been neglected for too long, but he heads straight into the shower first, eager to wash off the scent of planes and airports before he does anything else.

 

When he finally makes it into the kitchen, he scrunches his face up at the bright sunlight flooding the apartment.

 

“He’s alive,” Clarke says, appearing from behind the opened fridge door with grin and a carton of orange juice. She reaches for a glass, still smiling at him. “I thought you might be sick of coffee by the time you got back, so here.” She hands him the glass of juice, pertly spinning back around to stow the carton back into the fridge.

 

He groans gratefully before sipping carefully. “You’re making breakfast?”

 

“I would’ve made pancakes, but I kind of just got up too,” she says apologetically over her shoulder as she flips the grilled cheese sandwiches sizzling on the frying pan.

 

“No, this is great,” he says, coming to stand beside her, setting his glass on the counter and trying not to knock it over at the bright smile she flashes him. He clears his throat, one hand raking through his damp hair. “Are you not supposed to be at work today?”

 

“I’m off,” she says, pressing the flat of her spatula down on one of the sandwiches down with a satisfying sizzle. “Switched with Maya, remember?”

 

“Ah,” he says, not sure how else to respond. He thought he’d have the whole day to freak out to himself before having to face her — but he’s also happy as hell that they both get to spend the day at home after three days apart. His brain doesn’t know if he’s glad or scared and it’s making him extremely uncomfortable all over.

 

“Well,” he finally comes up with after a few agonising seconds, “that’s good. Having more time to rest. You— you’ve been really burnt out, huh?”

 

“Tell me about it,” she says emphatically, swiping up his glass to steal a sip. She swallows the small mouthful of juice, and clears her throat. “How’d the rest of the conference go? You were— uh, pretty worn out last night, weren’t you?”

 

He frowns at the sudden redirection in conversation. “Fine, I guess. It was the twelve-hour wait at JFK that really did me in, though,” he says with a wry laugh.

 

She laughs too, the sound light and carefree. “Yeah, nothing like spending the day trapped in an airport to get me in the mood.”

 

He blinks at her, brows knitting together. “What?”

 

She grins up at him, turning off the stove with one hand. “You don’t remember?”

 

He has that vague feeling of disorientation one gets when a fifteen-minute nap accidentally turns into a nine-hour coma. “Don’t remember… what?”

 

She reaches up for a couple of plates, still smiling knowingly. “Aw, Bell. I’m hurt. You don’t remember our first kiss?”

 

He flinches, staring wide-eyed at her. _He_ doesn’t remember? He’s spent the last seventy-two hours thinking of _nothing else_. _He_ doesn’t _remember_?!

 

Wait. If she was half-asleep, how come… _what?_

“You knew?” he blurts out, gaping at her as she transfers a sandwich to a plate.

 

She laughs again, her brows furrowing at him in bemusement. “Well, it’s kind of hard to ignore when your roommate comes home at two in the morning, falls asleep in the middle of a hug and then kisses you on the mouth.”

 

All the air rushes out of his lungs, an unexpected laugh escaping his lips that makes her glance up at him.

 

“Clarke,” he begins with a grin, feeling lighter than he has in three days, “the morning I left, you came in here, told me to text you when I land, and then you kissed me.”

 

She freezes, blinking down at the empty frying pan for several long moments. “I what?”

 

He pauses, all traces of laughter leaving him at the definite lack of enthusiasm on her face at the idea. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his neck prickling with an uncomfortable flush. “You didn’t— I mean, it wasn’t a— you were really exhausted,” he rushes out, his ears burning. “You weren’t— Ah, fuck— it’s okay, you don’t have to worry—”

 

She lets the spatula drop into the pan with a loud clatter. “It’s not okay!”

 

His heart sinks into the pits of his stomach, cold and heavy.

 

She turns to him, her eyes shining bright with fury from between loose strands of blonde. “Are you saying I don’t even remember our first kiss?” she demands, hands on her hips. “That’s so fucking unfair!”

 

He stares at her silently, counting the seconds in his head as he waits for the other shoe to drop, for her to dissolve into laughter, for her to yell _‘sike!’_

 

He gets to five, but she’s still standing there with her hands on her hips, clearly upset and fuming.

 

At this point, there’s really nothing else to do but kiss her. Hard.

 

“Here,” he says when he finally tears his lips from hers, both of them tightly pressed up against each other and panting heavily. “Now we’ll both remember this one.”

 

She hums blissfully, her fingers curling lazily into his hair. “I don’t know, I don’t think I’m properly awake yet. Refresh my memory?”

 

He grins breathlessly at her, his hands on her hips pulling her even closer. "If you insist." 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thank you for reading more of my bellarke trash! hope you enjoyed it and i hope these two ruin your life as much as they've ruined mine =)
> 
> if you've left a kudos, thank you! if you've left a comment, *british accent* thank you very much please indeed to YOU good comrade blessings and well-wishes upon ye. 
> 
> also, feel free to [come say hi](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com)! i will talk to literally ANYONE about anything bellarke. probably even my last principal. and she was kind of a stone cold bitch.


End file.
